Possibly it may have occurred to the reader to wonder whether in a
community at once so erudite and progressive as Broxborough--it
possesses both a Cathedral Close and a Linoleum Factory, you will
remember--there can have been no official alternative to Twenty-One,
The Common--no Public Library, no Public Lecture Courses, no
Municipal Oracle, as it were.
In truth Broxborough once had all these things. Before the War there
existed an institution known as Broxborough Pantheon. Here was an
excellent library of reference; lectures and classes, too, were
constantly in operation throughout the winter months. In its lighter
moments the Pantheon lent itself to whist drives. But the entire
building had been destroyed by fire in Nineteen Fifteen, and had
never been rebuilt, for the good and sufficient reason that during
those days there were other things to do. After the Armistice money
was scarce and rates were high. Moreover, that shrinking
sensitive-plant, the British bricklayer, had been instructed by his
Union to limit his professional activities to a tale of bricks so
tenuous that his labours for the day were completed, without undue
strain, by the time that he knocked off for breakfast. The months
passed; such constructive energy as the district could compass was
devoted to Government housing schemes, and still the Pantheon lay in
ruins.
But one day a man from Pittsburgh, who had been born in Broxborough
nearly forty years previously, and had relinquished his domicile and
civil status therein by becoming an American citizen at the age of
three, returned, rugged, prosperous, and beneficently sentimental, to
revisit the haunts of his youth, and refresh his somewhat imperfect
memories of his birthplace.
Naturally he found the place profoundly changed. The Cathedral
organ-bellows were now inflated by a gas-engine, and the
nine-seventeen up-train did not start until nine-forty-two.
And--where the Broxborough Pantheon had once reared its stucco
pseudo-Doric façade upon the market-square, there was nothing but an
untidy hoarding masking a heap of charred débris, and labelled, 'Site
of proposed new premises of the Broxborough Pantheon.' The label
appeared to have been there for some years.
John Crake of Pittsburgh made inquiries, and the truth was revealed.
The old Pantheon had ceased to exist for nearly five years, and the
new Pantheon, in the present condition of the rate-payers' pockets,
seemed unlikely ever to exist at all. So John Crake, having pondered
the matter in his large and sentimental heart, put his hand into his
own capacious pocket, and lo! the new Pantheon arose. The plasterers
had wreaked their will upon the donor's bank account, and were making
sullen way for the plumbers and electricians, about the time when I
first encountered Mr. Baxter outside the second-hand bookshop.
And now the building was ready for occupation, and the exact
procedure at the opening ceremony was becoming a matter of acute
recrimination at the Council meetings. So that genial gossip the
Rector informed me, as we encountered one another one afternoon on
our professional rounds.
"Things are more or less arranged," he said, "so far as our city
fathers are capable of arranging anything. The place is to be called
Crake Hall, which I think is right, and Crake himself is coming over
from America for the opening, which I call sporting of him. Old
Broxey" (The Most Noble the Marquis of Broxborough, the Lord
Lieutenant of our County) "will perform the opening ceremony. That
is to say, he will advance up the steps in the presence of the
multitude and knock three times upon the closed doors of the Hall. A
solemn pause will follow, to work up the excitement. Then the donor,
who will be standing inside, wearing a top-hat for the first time in
his life--"
"Rector, I have frequently warned you that your ribald tongue will
some day lose you your job."
"Never mind that. It's a poor heart that never rejoices, and I am
too fat to be serious all the time, anyhow. Well, after the
appointed interval of silence Crake will open a kind of peep-hole in
the oaken door, and say: 'Who goes there?' or something of that kind.
Broxey, if he is still awake, will reply: 'The Citizens of this
Ancient Borough,' or words to that effect. Then the doors will be
thrown open--assuming that they will open; but you know what our
local contractors are--and Crake will be revealed in his top-hat, and
will say: 'Welcome, Stranger!' or, 'Walk right in, boys!' or, 'Watch
your step!' or something like that, and will hand the key of the
Institute to Broxey, who will probably lose it."
"I see. And then to lunch at the Town Hall, I suppose?"
"Not so fast. Remember this is a Cathedral city: the Dean and
Chapter must be given an opportunity to put their oar in. The Dean
will speak his piece, and then I understand that the Choir, who are
to be concealed somewhere behind one of the doors, will create a
brief disturbance. After that the Town will assert itself, as
against the County and the Close."
"What is their stunt going to be?"
"An Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks to Crake."
"That seems reasonable. But who is going to compose it?"
"I have already done so, by request. It is not half bad," said the
Rector modestly.
"Who is going to read it? The Mayor?"
"The Mayor is an imperfect creature, but he possesses one superlative
quality: he harbours no illusions about his own ability to grapple
with the letter H. He declines to read the Address. Most of the
Corporation are in the same boat--though they don't all admit it."
"Why don't you read it yourself?"
"Trades-Union rules forbid. If I read it, it would be regarded as
the propaganda of the Established Church. The forces of Town and
Chapel would combine to fall upon me and crush me. No, we must have
a citizen--a citizen of credit and renown, locally known and
esteemed." The Rector eyed me furtively. "I suppose _you_, now--
"Not on your life!" I replied hastily.
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing I am a comparative stranger: I haven't been here
two years yet. Besides, in opening a literary and intellectual
emporium of this kind you want--I have it! The very man!"
"Who?" asked the Rector eagerly.